Paint the Town Red (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book II)

Not a Moment of Peace

Andrew was standing by the window, and looked uncomfortable. Imogen invited him into the so-called 'coffee corner' - a large table by the wall somewhat separated from the rest of the room by several large pot plants and a shelf with the office coffee machine, the kettle, and bits and bobs.

Andrew awkwardly folded his long body while Imogen was fussing with their coffee.

"So, Imogen," he started. "Here it goes. As you know, the late Mrs. Fitzroy had in her possession the collection of items she'd blackmailed out of some of the town's citizens, including some of your drawings."

Imogen froze and slowly turned to face the policeman. That was definitely not the direction of the conversation she'd anticipated. She'd been hiding from him, unnecessarily straightening cups and saucers on the shelf.

"And those drawings, well, they'd been processed as evidence. And Mr. Fitzroy had made an official request that the items from that 'collection' were to be returned to their... previous owners." The policeman cleared his throat. "It'll take some time, of course. And not all of the items will be claimed. I suppose some people aren't comfortable with letting the police know that she'd had anything to blackmail them with, at the first place."

"So, we found five of your drawings in her Trophy Room, as she called it," Andrew continued. "The ones she'd taken out of your school portfolio, as you remember."

Imogen remembered. The late Mrs. Fitzroy's feat - stealing Imogen's works and writing a nasty letter about her - cost the younger Imogen her scholarship, and consequently, a spot in an art academy. Imogen cringed. Although she now had a different vocation she enjoyed and was good at, it still hurt.

"And well, I took photos of your works and showed them to some people," Andrew said.

Imogen blinked purposefully. "I'm sorry, you did what?"

"There's this art forger in Abernathy. Balinson arrested him a few years back, when I just became a sergeant. And that bloke has been helping the police since then, when it came to art related crime. So that forger said that your art was actually rad! And he said it was worth quite a sum!"

Imogen repeated the blinking maneuver. Andrew was watching her with a chuffed anticipation written all over his face.

"You showed my art to a known art forger," Imogen repeated slowly.

"He said you could sell the ones I'd showed him! And he said that you need to look into editorial illustrations! Maybe even find an agent! Something about you being great at showing the expressions, or something." Andrew was now as much as beaming with pride. "You can chinwag with him yourself; but the point is, Mops, your art can actually sell!"

A few months ago Imogen would have sat down, stared into nothing for a few seconds, and then meekly thank Andrew for meddling into her business and making decisions for her. The Imogen of today had recently solved a double murder; saved the town from a financial catastrophe; and had finally had the nerve to stand up to her abusive sister and was currently fighting for custody over her niece and nephew. The Imogen of today had a backbone.

"That was absolutely unacceptable," she said, and met Andrew's eyes firmly. "That's just not done, Andrew."

The sergeant's jaw dropped, quite literally. Imogen hadn't known the idiom had a physical expression, but here was Andrew, his lips parted softly, his eyes boggled.

"Mops, I don't... get it. I've gotten you a person who can help you with your art!" Andrew had finally found his voice. "And he's clean, I assure you. He'd been working with Balinson since then, and..."

"That's not the point, Andrew!"

Imogen flailed her hands in her usual frustrated manner.

"What is the point then?" Andrew asked, frowning. "I thought you'd be happy."